


Music

by Pita Pan (Lizlow)



Category: Bad Apple Wars (Visual Novel)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27075346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizlow/pseuds/Pita%20Pan
Summary: Dosed down by the shadows of a past entangled with tragedy upon tragedy, wrapped by a cloak that rejects all approach, intimacy, he marches, marches onward. The voices he cannot hear, the sorrow he eternally recalls, and the fate he accepts, for sadness cannot encroach any longer, so long as he is here, a nail that is hammered down. The tune that plays strings, strums, covers his ears, keeps him in ‘line.’ His eyes are already masked, for a face that cannot be seen, for the individuality that is too difficult, too painful, to keep, for a defiance that is not understood.Thus, the orchestra escalates when the spotlight lands upon her.
Relationships: Rinka/White Mask | Watase
Kudos: 1





	Music

**Author's Note:**

> white mask... watase is very difficult to get down, but i sure tried! i did review scenes for this, and goodness have I missed BAW!! watase is really interesting, very strange 'death' included. i enjoyed his route, quite a bit! i hope you all enjoy this (it's on the study end, tho!)

Dosed down by the shadows of a past entangled with tragedy upon tragedy, wrapped by a cloak that rejects all approach, intimacy, _he_ marches, marches onward. The voices he cannot hear, the sorrow he eternally recalls, and the fate he accepts, for sadness cannot encroach any longer, so long as he is here, a nail that is hammered down. The tune that plays strings, strums, covers his ears, keeps him in ‘line.’ His eyes are already masked, for a face that cannot be seen, for the individuality that is too difficult, too painful, to keep, for a defiance that is not understood. 

Thus, the orchestra escalates when the spotlight lands upon _her_. 

She claims her name is [Rinka], but that is not _necessary_ information, is it? No, their _number_ suffices, it should continue to do so. Once she is granted status as a _Prefect_ from a certain _bucket-wearing teacher_ , she is called [2]. 

_Name... Why did she tell me her ‘name?’ A ‘personal name’ is unneeded knowledge for academy attendance. There is no reason to know it; it is an infraction upon the rules to hold it._

Still, the sole word clings to him. It weaves its way into his thoughts and refuses to shake itself away. It tears into him, and renders him speechless when he sees her from beneath the shield this ‘peace’ has decided to muster. _Focus, do not... do not..._

A reminder, faint, of a past attempted to be suppressed, of her fate bringing her here being on _his hands_ , she mustn’t remain, not by his side, but if the command leaves it so, then she’d... do well to listen, obey, now, wouldn’t she? 

For a young lady so vague in facial expression, so seemingly devoid of ambition, with no attachments from the ‘other’ world dragged with her (which is not permissible to use, regardless), she’s quite rooted in _not_ giving in to the duties she has been assigned, or so it appears. If she does anything to stray from the line she is meant to follow, then it is _his duty_ to reprimand her. She is aware of this, and yet still she leaves herself to instinct. 

Is she ‘floating’? Or does she have beliefs deep down, that she just hasn’t let herself bare yet?

_Duty.... To correct the souls that rebel from the rules... That is what I am supposed to do. If she has any questions, I will, naturally, answer them, and she..._

Is she really preparing herself to present forth the truth - a ‘Bad Apple’ in a masquerade? No, that is not the case; it cannot be. She is still a new student, and she will learn. She will come to ‘behave’ and be a ‘Good Apple.’ 

Those... _were_ his thoughts, previously, when they were at the beginning of their interactions in [NEVAEH]. But, every bit of contact with that _totem-less_ , clean soul of hers brought forward memories _she_ shouldn’t have seen, despair _she_ didn’t need to know, and he comes to fear it more, that her being within his gravity will stain the beauty of her potential before she’s even able to express it, before her happiness finally tethers itself in her self-realization. 

He doesn’t get it, why this girl is going so far for _them..._ for _him_. Why does she defend him? Why does she choose to take the punishments that are meant for him? For her to make it past this containing atmosphere, that is what he pushes for her. And she... well, she... she seems to ‘hope’ for him.

Is it passing that on to him? 

In his pondering, he comes to stand outside the school doors. Really, he should be returning _promptly_ to the dorms, but he lingers -- he lets himself _dilly-dally_ in a such a way that the entirety of the ‘Bad Apples’ might think he’s gone mad, might think their full chance has risen. 

“Snow... How beautiful...” 

He turns his head to see the ‘Odd Apple,’ Shikishima, wandering over. “Pardon?” He verbalizes. It is short, to the point. 

“Oh, no-no, _pardon_ me, I did not intend to interrupt the thoughtful contemplate you might have had, good or bad,” Shikishima says, giving a soft smile before he puts his hand over his heart and gazes up at the crimson-dipped sky with a wistful longing, “I was merely thinking about how beautiful the snow must surely be.” 

“What ever do you mean? Beautiful?”

“Quite so. Although the snow never truly falls in this world, I have found myself upon the topic often. One one hand, it is frigid, a cruel sort of cold that brings with it an icey domain. It covers _the sky_ away from the teeny-tiny lives about it, freezing the fingertips, seizing their lungs, but it also...” he sheds a single tear, “blankets them. The pristines folds of a bank can be trampled, but still the snow perseveres. It embraces the ground below it, and soon even the cold will warm those it envelops, defending them from the plight of that which accompanies a needless rush...”

“Do you dislike the snow?”

“On the contrary,” Shikishima answers as he moves his brush over his paper, “I ‘like’ it. The snow will one day melt, and spring will begin anew; however,” he pauses and swipes quickly on his art, “the most resilient of buds, harder though they might chance become, can bloom, even through the grasp. Some might only reveal their lovely petals during such a season. Fresh and eager, learned and tried, some might speak of their skill when it comes to parsing through their chilly coats. But, I digress.” Shikishima pauses, and looks at _Watase_ directly, momentarily, “Now, Mister Prefect, I apologize for using my totem in front of you. Are you going to confiscate it?”

Watase thinks on it; he recalls he had once told Rinka to not allow this rulebreaker to lead her astray, but the situation is different now. Plenty twists, chains him down. Has he earned the right yet? To stand by her, by them? 

_Even if you do, I suspect it would find its way back to me as soon as it can. It is the pole that believes itself to be an essential part of my soul... It is as much I as I am it..._

Silently, Watase does reach out to take the sketchbook from Shikishima, and Shikishima merely smiles, an incomprehensible one, as Watase turns away. One step again and a deep breath later, the sketchbook flees his grasp and reappears in the other’s hands. 

And Shikishima hums as he walks off, “May you find your peace, Mister Snowy. Surely you, as well, will one day bloom within - or outside - the confines of this beautiful world.” 

As soon as he departs, Watase notices _her_ approaching, as quickly as her feet can carry her. “T-There you are!” She exclaims. She’s changed from her first moments here; he’s noticed that from her eyes, the way they are now. She doesn’t let him _go_. _Don’t stay by my side_ , but still she remains, stubbornly so, to to point he feels she will have no choice but to _suffer,_ but she, she accepts it, reaches for it. Does she treasures it? Her 'time' with him?

One touch, just a single touch, and he lets her in - is it intentional? - Her hand grips around his arm, and his memories flush out of his depths, in a blink, they consume her, connecting the flutters of her soul to his. 

_I... For the happiness... withdraw... do not... lose... live... love..._

* * *

A girl with a white aura, purely untouched by the heavy clutches of sin. He could not stay to view her, for fear of darkened, thorny vines to yank her down, down, down in despair. Her expression, vague, unswayed one way or another. But even just that glimpse, the one second the hands of his very soul reached out, was enough, enough to pull her away from living. 

Just a brief moment, the world decided it - the pleasant tune that tempted itself about his heart, it had been enough. 

His tears are for the pity of his life, the world he didn’t deserve to be in. A ‘reaper’ who must be avoided, that had been what he accepted. But he allows the birds to sing in his ears and the cherry blossoms fall gentler than his heaving breath, the sirens failing to disrupt them, instead the spring air cries louder, louder, to the rebirth of ‘hope’ that he cannot - _could not_ \- grasp. 

_Please... ki..._

He sees the cherry blossoms shine a soft pink through his blurring eyes and it only makes it sob more, and more. It’s her that finally grants him permission to let the wall crumble and all that had been held back finally, entirely, releases.

_It’s lovely.... This beautifully cruel world..._

That glance of a _mere_ second and the wish he had to accompany it, he begs, begs for not just release, but for _forgiveness_ , for being born, for _killing her_ , for even asking, for even desiring these next words, but he, he refuses to hold them back, this feeling. 

_Let me live... Let me love... and be loved in return_. 

Each repeat twists and twirls and melds with the darkness of his shutting, drenched eyes. To exist, would it be okay? In spite of the world punishing him for it, in spite of despair balking at him, whispering all those evil nothings, in spite of every test, he...

...lets go. 

For when the lament ends, a new melody will begin, celebrating the love his soul has collided with, against all odds. It will be the moment they truly meet, one of which one could perhaps, finally say, is representative of ‘hope.’


End file.
